For the love of a man named Sherlock Holmes
by CarpeDiemForLife
Summary: Drabbles about Sherlock and the people who care about him. Will include Molly, Irene Adler, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, etc. Pre-, during, and post-Reichenbach falls, so beware of spoilers! Not in chronological order necessarily.
1. Molly Hooper

"What do you need?"

"You." Molly waited patiently, her composure steadfast.

"First... I need your phone."

Molly nodded even as she obligingly pulled out her mobile and handed it to him.

"Second—and this part is much more complicated-"

"I can handle it," assured Molly firmly.

She wasn't quite sure what had provoked her to interrupt Sherlock to say such a thing, but she didn't regret it. Though her heart was pounding just as nervously as it always did around the consulting detective, Molly didn't want to be the shy, awkward, easily intimidated and manipulated 'girl at the morgue' anymore. She was Molly Hooper, a bright young lady with an intuitive mind and the right to speak it out loud. Sherlock needed her- and though perhaps he hadn't realized it before he certainly realized it now, now that she'd been frank and open with him, practically demanding his attention and respect.

Sherlock seemed a bit startled at Molly's bold interruption, but the look of surprise faded into a soft smile. Molly's heart raced even more furiously at the sight and she hoped she wasn't blushing. Had Sherlock ever looked on her so tenderly? Not in her memory. At least, not in earnest. Despite what Sherlock thought, Molly could easily tell the difference between his fake flattery and his genuine self. And this smile... well, it was real. Still smiling softly, the detective spoke once more, interrupting Molly from her musings.

"Yes, I believe you can."


	2. Sherlock Holmes

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Sherlock opened Molly's phone, immediately creating a NEW TEXT MESSAGE and punching in the number of the recipient.

_I require assistance for a disappearing act. Could be dangerous. –SH_

Sherlock paced impatiently back and forth, subconsciously tapping out a few lines of binary code on his thigh. Not two minutes later, Sherlock felt the phone vibrating in his hand. He flipped it open.

_-Could be?-_

Sherlock paused for a second, then his fingers began to tap speedily over the phone's keys once again.

_Will be. Undoubtedly. –SH _ No point in being dishonest.

A very long minute later there was another vibration.

_-In that case, I accept your request.-_

Though he was not surprised at this, Sherlock could not deny the rush of relief in his heart as he read that one brief line. Upon reading the second line of the text a small smile quirked its way onto Sherlock's lips, though he lectured himself that it merited no such reaction. The second line read simply thus:

_-Let's have dinner.-_

.-.-.

**Thanks to everyone who reads! Please review, let me know what you think. The next chapter will be up shortly. The lengths will vary, so I'm sorry that this one is so short, but they won't all be. Thanks again!**


	3. Mycroft Holmes

"I've never _heard_ such an absurd plan."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly at his older brother. Couldn't he be a help instead of a hindrance, just this once?

"Don't exaggerate; of course you have. In fact, this plan is rather sound."

"There's too much relying on _his_ choices," was the argument.

"That can't be helped. But you can't deny that I've predicted the most likely outcomes. Your brilliant mind can surely work out that much, just as mine has."

"But it's too _risky_, Sherlock!" he insisted. "You could die."

Sherlock just looked at him stoically. Mycroft gave a sigh.

"You don't care about that of course."

"I'm accustomed to gambling with my own life."

"But not with others' lives," completed Mycroft resignedly. Sherlock nodded sharply, uncomfortable discussing emotions with his older brother.

Mycroft sat back heavily in his plush chair pondering this. There did not seem to be any way of convincing Sherlock to give up his mad plan. Sherlock would never change his mind or back down, all because the lives of a few other people were on the line. Mycroft was stuck between rather conflicting emotions. On the one hand he was exasperated because Sherlock was not taking into account the fact that his own life was significantly more important to preserve: a genius the caliber of the Holmes brothers was not a common one after all. But on the other hand, Mycroft found himself somehow glad that his brother had finally found people that he cared about enough to protect at any expense.

_Well…_ thought Mycroft, _If it must be this way, Sherlock must at least take into consideration those who will also be affected by his actions. _

"You know what this will do to John, don't you?"

"I couldn't care less if John hates you because of it Mycroft."

"Don't be such a child Sherlock," he snapped. "I'm not concerned about such a trivial matter. I meant-"

"I know what you meant," Sherlock cut in abruptly. Mycroft waited for a moment, but Sherlock gave no sign of an intention to speak more.

"Well? Do you understand what-"

"Of course I do." Sherlock's voice became tight as his eyes shifted irritably. The conversation had clearly become highly uncomfortable for the consulting detective.

A tense silence fell between the two men. Mycroft found himself reflecting on their childhood. Sherlock had never been a normal child, nor had Mycroft of course, but it had still pained Mycroft to see Sherlock so reserved. Oftentimes Mycroft would find himself wishing that Sherlock would talk to him, make Mycroft his confidant. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to disclose his feelings to him. A few times Mycroft had even been on the verge of inviting Sherlock to do so, but the words always seemed to catch in his throat, so he never said them.

Now, as he watched Sherlock struggle to subdue the emotions he rarely admitted to having, Mycroft felt that way once again. As always, Mycroft wanted to support Sherlock in the way that a normal older brother would support his younger brother.

But, as always, Sherlock did not give him the chance.

"You'll do it?" Sherlock checked. It took Mycroft a moment to shake off the sadness that he had once again failed at making a connection.

"Well. It seems you've left me no choice," he replied with a fake, tight smile. Sherlock nodded once and then quickly turned on his heel and left the room, his long black coat flapping up behind him.

As soon as the door shut closed Mycroft slumped down in his chair, covering his face with his hands. Though he liked it little, Mycroft understood Sherlock's need to get out of the public eye and to best Moriarty's game. Therefore, Mycroft would do everything he could to assist him.

Perhaps it was impossible for Mycroft to ever have the relationship with Sherlock that he desired, but then, if this was the only way he could even be _close_ to supporting Sherlock, he would do it. He would do it.

"Please be safe, little brother," Mycroft murmured sadly.

.-.-.

**So, right now I'm on a bit of a Reichenbach binge, but not all of the chapters will be involved with the Fall. Thanks for reading! Please review. Let me know if there are any characters you particularly want to see. **


	4. Mrs Hudson

_Author's note: Post-Reichenbach this time. Thank you so much for reading! Please remember to favorite, alert, and especially review. Let me know if you would like to keep seeing more of these. Feel free to continue to request characters, etc. Thanks again everyone!_

.-.-.

Mrs. Hudson's short heels padded softly over the grass. Her aging hands were clenched together in front of her chest. When she reached the black marble headstone, she stopped. Opening her mouth hesitantly, she spoke.

"Sherlock dear... I'm sorry about those things I said the other day. When John was here with me I mean. Saying such things at a burial place... It just isn't decent. I was in such a state of it Sherlock. Oh what with the funeral, and the empty flat, and... Oh goodness, look at me Sherlock, getting all... all flustered like this.

"Now I'm not saying you didn't bloody drive me up the wall sometimes, I mean really dear your habits could drive _any_ old woman mad, but I suppose... Well it's so lonely now Sherlock. I haven't had a good night's rest since that horrible day you know, even without you... banging away up there, firing shots into my poor wall. And John... oh the poor man... he can't even come back to the flat. I've sent him some of his things. He's staying with that Inspector Lestrade, that's what he told me. They may even get a new flat together, that's what I hear.

"Oh but... what am I to do with 221B? I don't know if... if I can bear to rent it out to anybody else. Oh but I suppose I'll have to. You would understand Sherlock, I know you would. You'd think it downright silly for me not to. Sentimental...

"I met a very nice man Sherlock- ...No, you wouldn't care to hear about that. I'm sure you'd know something about him that I don't want to hear either, so I'll just...

"I miss the both of you, you and John. I miss... having you two rushing about, doing this and that, solving your cases together. It was good to see you so happy Sherlock. I wish you'd stayed happy. I wish you'd told me that you...

"John doesn't look happy anymore either. That's not a surprise of course, but I do wish he wouldn't look like that all the time. I can remember you two smiling, and laughing together, oh the way you two would act when you'd just got back from a case, or from chasing some madman or other all around London. Just like two little boys you were. M-... _my_ boys...

"Oh Sh-Sherlock! I'm s-so sorry Sherlock! P- Please... Sherlock... b-b-be happy..."


	5. DI Greg Lestrade

_Author's note: Thank you for reading! Please favorite, alert, and review. Especially review. Feel free to request characters or give suggestions/critiques. Thanks so much to barus and Shall be lifted Nevermore for their reviews!_

_This one is pre-Reichenbach, a bit of light to break up all the Reichenbach/post-Reichenbach angst. I'll definitely do more chapters for Lestrade later on as well. Enjoy!_

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><p>"Thank you for your time. I'm very sorry for your loss."<p>

The sound of lead scratching against paper ceased as Detective Inspector Lestrade froze suddenly. The pencil tip hovered mere centimeters from the notepad, and yet he seemed to have completely forgotten this fact.

Looking up in shock, Lestrade watched Sherlock walk away from the victim's grieving, but calm, widow. There could be no mistake about it. The familiar smooth baritone voice that had floated so gently through the air to Lestrade's ears was indeed the voice of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

"John," called out Lestrade hesitantly, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's figure for an instant. John's head snapped up at the sound of his name. Rising from a crouch, John brushed off his hands and, ending his careful examination of the corpse, hustled over to the DI.

"Yes?" responded John.

"Did you just hear that?" Lestrade asked in dumbstruck amazement, pointing in the direction of the wife. John's eyebrows rose slightly and he quickly glanced at the woman.

"Uh, no... Did Sherlock do something that I need to go apologize for?"

"He said _thank_ you. And he offered his _condolences_," explained Lestrade abruptly, his astonishment still evident in his voice. Clearly the shock had not worn off. John's brow furrowed confusedly, his eyes immediately locking on Sherlock, just like Lestrade's had.

"He-" John began, before cutting himself off as he pondered the idea. Finally he shook his head slightly and turned back to Greg.

"No. You're mistaken, surely. Sherlock? Since when has he ever participated in socially acceptable customs like those?" Upon receiving a look from Lestrade that read 'Trust me, I'm sure', John looked over at Sherlock again, unsure whether to be grateful or concerned.

Greg Lestrade, however, had begun to move past his state of shock. Chuckling lightly, he shook his head a bit. He turned his gaze from Sherlock back to John, smiling.

"Thank you, John." John gave a start.

"Me?"

"I told you once that Sherlock Holmes was a great man, but not quite a good one. And I think that... Well, I think you've managed to make him a _better_ one. So... thank you."


	6. John Watson

_Author's note: Thank you for reading! Please favorite, alert, and review. Feel free to request characters or give suggestions/critiques, I'm more than happy to hear anything you have to say._

_Post-Reichenbach again. I tried my hand at doing justice to the John/Sherlock relationship. Not written as slash, but feel free to read it any way you like._

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><p>It was two months after the incident. Two months after the ex-soldier received a phone call relating the news of his landlady's bullet wound. Two months after an extremely grieved doctor raced back to St. Bartholomew's Hospital only to observe a certain consulting detective perched on the rooftop. Two months after John Watson had stumbled dazedly away from his best friend's battered and bloody body sprawled on the cold and unforgiving pavement.<p>

Sherlock was not the only one injured by the fall, even if John's bruises were imperceptible to the naked eye. Two months had passed now, and John's wounds had not yet healed, not even close.

Every time John closed the door to 221B, the quiet thud seemed to reverberate through his entire body, violently shaking his fragile insides. When John put on a kettle to make tea, the harsh burning whistle seemed to split the hairs on his scalp and shatter his delicate bones. Perhaps the worst of all was the silence, the impenetrable silence of the flat that taunted the doctor day in and day out. The silence filled his soul, invaded his thoughts, brought him nightmares. John's mind would run rampant imagining the sounds that could be filling his ears rather than the silence: test tubes clinking, phones ringing, guns firing. If he tried hard enough, perhaps he could conjure memories of Sherlock playing the violin... But no, the faded memories could never do justice to Sherlock's musical gifts.

Even as the silence smothered John's senses, he could still feel the acute pain of his heartbreak quite clearly. John even fancied that he could feel his heart slowly breaking apart within him, a new crack appearing in its frail casing with each new day.

_Shouldn't grief fade over time?_ he would think despairingly. But this was not the case. The more time that passed, the more real it all seemed, and the more grief-stricken he became. Sherlock was gone. Truly gone. His best friend in the whole world, the brilliant consulting detective, gone forever, his life ended by the few pivotal seconds spent falling from atop a tall building onto a sidewalk below.

_What is life anyways?_ John wondered bitterly, _Such a fleeting thing... And where, _where_, is the sense, or the justice, in a world where a _genius_ like Sherlock Holmes is able to meet such an untimely end? What's the point for the _rest_ of us? Why should we struggle every day, toiling endlessly for some 'purpose' that is, in the end, meaningless? What about those of us who don't even have a purpose? Why are we here? _Sherlock_ had a purpose, a part to play in this chaotic world. But someone like me... A doctor. At one time I felt that this was good, _impressive_ even. I can save lives and do good in the world, I thought. And then I met _him_. The best and... most incredible man I've ever known. And suddenly I realized how insignificant I am. But with Sherlock... he gave me my own part to play. I had a _purpose_ with Sherlock. But now?..._

Despite the perpetual sickness in his stomach and the irreparable tear in his heart, John always did his best to put on a smile for others. When Mrs. Hudson came up the creaky stairs with a tray of tea and biscuits, John could see the invisible tears in her eyes, so he put on a shaky smile. When Greg Lestrade stopped by for a visit, John could see the hidden guilt in his heart, so he put on a shaky smile. Perhaps his friends noticed that there was an emptiness in his smile, a lack of honesty and depth, but if they did, they had the courtesy to not mention it.

Luckily, he whose name literally opens doors—the detective's older brother Mycroft Holmes—made no attempts to contact John in the months following Sherlock's suicide. If he had, John would not have put on any _sort _of smile, shaky or otherwise. If there was to be any smiling it would be a rather dazed smile on Mycroft's face as little stars floated maddeningly around his head after John's fist had solidly connected with it.

Be that as it may, the occasion never arose, and John felt himself settling into an endless cycle of tormented days and restless nights. Sometimes he thought that he could hear Sherlock's hearty baritone laugh, that smooth musical tone that had always made the world a little brighter. Then he would wake up, the dense blackness of his room stifling his dreams and suffocating him in a way that it hadn't since his recovery from PTSD.

Sometimes John would be seated in his armchair with a coffee and the newspaper, but upon looking at the empty chair opposite, he would be overcome with unspeakable grief and his body would become wracked with silent heaving sobs. Other times, John would blink and realize that he'd moved to a different place, though he couldn't recall getting there.

It was almost as if John Watson was fading away. As if... without Sherlock tethering him firmly to the earth, his body did not have to comply with the laws of science. As if the lack of Sherlock's existence somehow negated his _own_ existence.

Perhaps this was why, two months after the incident, it didn't surprise John when he was standing in the kitchen one moment then lying in a hospital bed the very _next_ moment, blinking his eyes open to see sterilized white walls boxed around him.

Not possessing the will to care about this sudden change in setting, John closed his eyes.


	7. John Watson 2

_Author's note: This is actually the (very short) second chapter of my new story about John/Mary, so if you read them both, sorry for the repeat! I just felt that this qualified as a drabble, and worthy of being included in this story as well. Enjoy! Read and review, as always, please._

_(About a year Post-Reichenbach)  
><em>

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><p>John tread a familiar path across the grass towards Sherlock's headstone, the same path he always traveled on his way to visit Sherlock's grave. But for the very first time, he was smiling. Even if the smile was small, it was there.<p>

"I wanted to tell you something," he said abruptly, the name engraved in black marble staring back at him just as silently as the real Sherlock would have. "We got a letter today. Do you remember the time you told me that heroes don't exist? And that, if they did, you wouldn't be one? Well..."

John's lips twitched slightly, not quite managing a smirk, but still smiling in a rather self-satisfied way.

"...you were wrong. You _are_ a hero. According to one Miss Anna Clover. Do you remember the Clover case, Sherlock? You probably don't, you bloody git. Too boring for your taste. Took you less than thirty minutes to set the police straight on that one. Well, anyways, Anna Clover remembers. We're her heroes. The both of us. She sent a nice letter in the mail: handwritten, colored, the works. You wouldn't have appreciated it much I suppose. I did though. I appreciated it a lot. And I had to tell you.

"So you see, Sherlock? You're not right about everything, you arrogant cad. You've just been proved wrong by a 4th Year girl. ...So there."


	8. Sally Donovan and Anderson

_Author's note: Thank you for reading! Please favorite, alert, and review. Reviews are incredibly helpful and inspiring. Feel free to request characters or give suggestions/critiques. _

_Post-Reichenbach again. I got several requests for drabbles with the Scotland Yarders, and this idea was mulling around in my head, so here's the first. I'll do others (that actually deal with cases and such) but I hope you enjoy this one._

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><p>"Do you ever think... what if we made a mistake?"<p>

Anderson glanced over in surprise at Sally Donovan, the woman currently lying next to him in bed naked.

"A mistake? My wife won't be home for two more days, darling."

"No, I don't mean about that," she sharply. Anderson's brow crinkled to see such a melancholy, pained look on Sally's face. What on earth was she talking about?

"What then?"

"About Sherlock."

"About _Sherlock_?" he cried incredulously. Snorting, he turned his face away from Sally's, focusing once more on the ceiling above. "The thought never even crossed my mind."

"Never? Not once?" she pressed, pushing herself up onto her forearms. "I mean, we drove a man to _suicide_."

"Sherlock Holmes' suicide had nothing to do with us. It was his own bloody fault for being an arrogant, unmanageable, lying, psychotic bastard. We did right to expose that fake for what he truly was."

"I know the evidence against him was pretty substantial, but just _what if_..." she said forcefully. Anderson could see how much this whole suicide business was tearing her up. As if she had anything to do with it. She should be _grateful_ that the horrible wreck of a human being was gone.

"Are you forgetting what he did? That_ monster_ faked cases, just to make himself look like some sort of a hero! He kidnapped _children_ for Christ's sake! Are you sympathizing with a child-kidnapper?"

"No, I'm not," she argued. Taking a moment, she thought back over the whole ordeal. With a sigh, she collapsed back down on the bed, scooting closer to Anderson. "I suppose it simply is impossible for him to have found that factory with nothing more than a footprint to go on."

"Exactly. None of it makes any sense. No human could ever have done that. And you remember the way he was always treating us. Made a mockery of us! Publicly exposed us, called us names, insulted us... Sherlock Holmes deserved what he got."

"Now, hang on," said Sally tersely, her annoyance rising again, and along with it, her doubts. "You sound as if you're making this a personal battle."

"Well he was a despicable asshole. Trust me, we did _nothing_ wrong."

But now the cogs in Sally's mind were furiously spinning. Everything Sherlock Holmes had ever done... Was he a horrid human being? Yes. Did she hold no other feeling towards him than disdain? Well... no. She admired him. Or she _had_, before she'd finally realized that he was no more than a publicity-seeking fraud.

But... was she certain? Sherlock certainly never _admitted_ to being a fraud. And it just seemed so impossible that he could have fabricated all those cases. And even if he had, how had he known everything else? Those clever little deductions that no one else had been able to make. After all, no one _else_ had noticed her affair with Anderson. How then, had he known?

The more she thought about it, about every little cruel deduction he had made about her and Anderson over the years, the queasier she became.

"But what if we were wrong?" she pressed. Anderson sighed in annoyance, rolling his eyes condescendingly. The anger inside of her boiled and she pushed herself away from him and jumped out of bed. Anderson's eyebrows shot upwards in shock.

"Wha- No, come on Sally," he pleaded. "Don't- Ugh, _don't_ be like that."

"Don't you dare tell me what to do. You won't even consider the possibility!" Having put on her dressing robe, Sally whirled on him. "I think about it all the time! I admired him, you know. Sherlock. I may have hated him, but by God he was brilliant."

"But he _wasn't_," whined Anderson.

"You don't know that!" she shouted. "What if... what if we were too hasty? What if we drove a genius, a _mad_ genius, to his death? Do you want that on your conscience?"

"It's not on my conscience, I promise."

"You're horrible Anderson," she spat hatefully.

"What, we're back to a last names basis? Because of that freak? You always said so yourself Sally."

"That he was a freak? Yeah. Yeah I did. He _was _a freak. But that doesn't mean he needed to die."

"He was a _fraud_, Sally!" shouted Anderson, rising from bed himself finally, getting rather annoyed with her attitude. "Everything he ever did... was a lie. Except his goddamn attitude- _that_ bit of him was real."

"You know Anderson... I've been thinking about it... and I don't believe it. I think we were wrong. Was he a freak? Yes. Did I hate everything about him? Yes. Is it incredibly hard to believe that any one man could be that brilliant? Yes, it is. But having seen him work, all those years... He _must_ have been. Sherlock Holmes was that brilliant. It's the harder conclusion, but the only one supported by all the evidence. Sherlock knew things that no ordinary person could ever have known."

"Sally, you're being idiotic-"

"_Idiotic_, am I?" she shrieked. Fire blazed in her eyes and she quickly snatched up a shoe by her foot (Anderson's, which had been kicked off earlier that night). Holding it up, Anderson clearly understood what she meant to do with it.

"Now- don't- Sally you're being ridiculous, don't you think? No, don't-!" Anderson shut up as he ducked, dodging the shoe desperately. Still furious, Sally picked up the other shoe and again hurled it at his head. This one hit the mark. Anderson scowled and rubbed his aching head.

"You pathetic bastard," she snarled. "You spoke out against Sherlock for personal reasons. I did it because I thought it was _right._ Now... Now I wish I never had. Haven't you seen them, the other Yarders? Every time there's a case now, you can see it, everyone wishing Sherlock was still around."

"We're hardly incapable without him," scoffed Anderson in aggravation.

"No, but we are less able to do our jobs properly. The cases move more slowly, we follow wrong leads, we get _nowhere_, and if Sherlock were here... things would be different. I truly believe that. And clearly _you_, Anderson, are just full of hate and prejudice. I'm leaving."

Scooping up her clothes with sharp, angry movements, Sally heard Anderson's clunky footsteps as he walked around the bed towards her.

"Don't you touch me," she warned. Sure enough, she felt his hands on her back and shoulder, as if trying to calm her. This was the last straw. Putting a fair amount of force behind it, Sally drove her elbow up and back.

"Augh!" he cried, stumbling back. Her clothes comfortably held in her arms now, she turned to face him with an expression somewhere between a smirk and a sneer on her face. "That was my _nose_!" Anderson's hands were placed tenderly over his now bleeding nose, and he looked on the brink of tears. Whether from pain or anger, Sally wasn't sure, but she was willing to bet the former. Well _good_. She'd _wanted _it to hurt.

"Well, it looks better than it did before, _trust_ me," she shot at him. Smiling at the look of utter shock and disgust on Anderson's face, Sally walked to the door proudly. Just before leaving, she turned back around and made eye connect with her former lover.

"Oh, and don't be too surprised when your _wife_ hears about this." Sally ignored his livid exclamations. "You may not be capable of owning up to your mistakes, but I am. And this has been the second biggest mistake of my life. The biggest mistake was with what I did to Sherlock. Because you know what Anderson? I believe in Sherlock Holmes."


	9. Irene Adler

_Author's note: Thank you for reading! Please favorite, alert, and review. Reviews are incredibly helpful and inspiring. Feel free to request characters or give suggestions/critiques. _

_Post-Reichenbach. I got a few requests for Irene, so here it is. This follows the previously established story between Sherlock and Irene. Again, please review!_

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><p>"A key code? One key code to unlock any door?" Irene repeated.<p>

"Yes."

"And you believed him? Oh poor baby," she pouted mockingly, "You must be getting old; your brain is becoming sluggish."

"I had a few other things on my mind," snapped the detective, his pride evidently wounded.

"Oh? Like... me, for instance?" she smirked, standing behind Sherlock (where he was seated on her couch) and beginning to massage his shoulders. Sherlock automatically tensed at her touch, but he did not pull away. Leaning down, she whispered in his ear, "No need to feel embarrassed; I think about you as well. Every little thing that I could do with you..."

"Hardly," he said sarcastically, "It was something more to do with faking my impending death, saving my friends from being murdered, and, oh yes, did I mention putting on an act believable enough to fool a criminal mastermind?"

"I'm impressed Sherlock," she said proudly, smiling.

"With what?"

"That you managed to put the words 'my' and 'friends' next to each other in a sentence. You're becoming a big boy now. Sherlock's all grown up."

Sherlock scowled and pulled away from her. Strutting away, he headed for the door, intent on finding some other room in her house in which he would be left unbothered.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," she called out. Sherlock stopped. Smirking, he turned back around.

"I won't tease you," she said reluctantly, "If you just... stay."

"Why even ask? You could simply _drug_ me like before," he replied dryly.

"And don't you forget it," she shot back.

"Why did you help me? Why did you save my life?" Irene looked surprised by the turn in the conversation. She shrugged vaguely.

"You said there would be danger. Trying to stay hidden can get rather dull at times, always having to stay on the run. I was tired of playing it safe."

"Is that all there was to it?"

"Well... that and other things."

"Other things?"

"You already know how I... feel about you Sherlock."

"So you _do _still feel those things?"

"Of course."

"_Why_?"

Irene paused a moment, observing Sherlock in quiet longing. She felt the familiar sting in her heart, knowing that he would never see her the way she saw him. As always, the sadness felt like ice water being injected into her veins, freezing her very soul. But the longer she looked at him, the more that the ice melted and the pain faded. He may never love her, but loving him was a gift of its own. Sherlock Holmes, the tall thin man with pale skin, striking blue eyes, a mass of ruffled black curls, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut through flesh. Sherlock Holmes, the sociopathic genius with an eye for the eccentric. Sherlock Holmes, the proud detective with a dry and witty sense of humor, who spoke his mind and never struggled to be politically or socially correct. Sherlock Holmes, who had come to her in his time of need, trusting her with his very life. Everything about him was beautiful, to Irene. She only wished that he could see that. She'd never tell him of course. He would perceive her feelings as a weakness, and by making herself weak in his eyes she would lessen his interest in her. That was something she absolutely wouldn't stand for. She would do whatever she could to keep Sherlock tied in, so that even if he never loved her, he enjoyed her peculiar company enough to stick around.

After a minute of silence, Irene smiled, the softness in her eyes making her styled black hair, vivid red lips, and pale white skin seem less sharp and domineering.

"Come on. Let's go have dinner. If you behave... maybe I'll let you have _me_ for dessert."


	10. Sherlock and John

_Author's note: Thanks for reading! Please review everybody, it's very helpful and inspiring. Please request characters or give suggestions/critiques. _

_Pre-Reichenbach. Just a bit of fun between our two favorite boys._

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><p>"Don't even think about it, Sherlock," John's voice called out. Sherlock jumped in surprise, the fridge door swinging shut as he did so.<p>

"What?" he asked confusedly, "Don't think about what?"

"I need that jelly for later tonight. And I _saw_ those toes you've got with you. I'm just warning you: don't do it." Sherlock scoffed.

"It's just a bowl of orange jelly. What possible use could you have for it that exceeds the importance of my experiments?"

"Quite a few uses actually."

"Such as...?"

"Eating, Sherlock. _Some_ people... like to _eat_. It keeps the normal folk of the world nourished and energized. Not all of us feed off the residual energy of unsolved criminal cases," replied John dryly. Sherlock scowled at his friend.

"I'm not a plant you know, John. I eat as well. It is not a phenomenon to me. I simply do not see how one bowl of jelly could be so important. There's always other food to eat."

"No..." said John, rising from his armchair and walking into the kitchen. He stood across the room from Sherlock, his arms crossed firmly. "I put in my own time and money to make that jelly and I will be eating it, do you hear me?" Sherlock paused, looking his friend up and down very slowly. Not saying a word, a small smirk appeared on Sherlock's face. John clenched his jaw and took a deep breath to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

"What?" he demanded.

"You're wearing a new pair of shoes, your best pair of trousers, your shirt has been recently pressed, and you're perfectly clean-shaven."

"And?"

"Added to the rather odd occurrence of you using your time to make _jelly_... You've got a date tonight. Orange jelly her favorite perhaps?" teased Sherlock.

"Alright, fine, yes. I have a date, and I'd prefer the jelly to remain untouched. Alright? Thank you." John ignored his gloating flat mate and made his way back to his armchair where he settled down, pulling out a book to read. Vaguely he heard the sounds of Sherlock opening and closing the fridge—most likely to store the toes in some other now-inedible meal—and then glide away into his bedroom.

The time flew, until John checked his watch only to find that several hours had passed. He was supposed to meet his date at her house in only half an hour.

"Drat," he muttered under his breath, jumping up quickly. First he primped his clothes and hurriedly pulled on his jacket, making sure his appearance was satisfactory. He stowed his phone in his pocket in case of some emergency with Sherlock—God forbid—and then he stopped briefly to take stock. All that was left was to grab the jelly and go.

John jogged into the kitchen, yanking the fridge door open. He stopped frozen at the sight. His eyes narrowed slowly and he gritted his teeth together. John reached in and pulled out the bowl of orange jelly, which now had two lovely toes stuck inside it and a note taped to the outside of the container. John snatched the note off the bowl and read it.

_You don't want to be creating false expectations. Otherwise she'll expect you to cook for her all the time. You're welcome. I assure you, you'll be the first to know of my experiment's results. Oh, and I'll buy you some more jelly. But grape jelly instead. I don't like orange._

John read this note over twice, allowing the words to really sink in and bubble in the pit of his stomach. Then...

"SHERLOCK!"


	11. Lestrade and Anderson

_Author's note: Thanks to all my faithful readers! Just another short one for fun. Please review!_

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><p>"What <em>if<em>... the body was dumped out the window and just washed away? It could have been the _husband_ that did it," mused Anderson aloud.

Adopting a face of pure sincerity, Sherlock proclaimed, "Spectacular Anderson. I can see an award with your name written all over it."

"...Really?" was Anderson's—understandably—apprehensive reply.

"Oh yes. A Darwin Award. After you die."

DI Lestrade shot the consulting detective a stern look.

"Be_have_ Sherlock. Don't make me tell you again."

"Perhaps if you would quiet the nose?" suggested Sherlock with a smugly innocent smile.

"Hey!" was the indignant cry.

Lestrade shot the insulted man a tired glance. Barely repressing a sigh, he intoned, "Anderson, do us all a favor, and just shut up for a bit, will ya?"

"I have the right to speak!" Anderson exclaimed angrily.

"No need to abuse that right," was Sherlock's dry muttered response.

"_Sherlock_!" the DI called out as a reprimand. He gave up with a resigned—and partially amused—sigh as he observed the smug curl of Sherlock's lips as he turned back to his examination of the crime scene, not even sparing a thought for Lestrade or the still-miffed man who he had offended.

Honestly, why try? He'd never be able to control Sherlock, and to be quite honest, he didn't particularly want to. Much as he would never admit it, Sherlock's sarcastic taunts always kept him amused at the crime scene. Secretly, Lestrade and his coworkers (those who also employed Sherlock on cases) would sometimes meet in the break room at Scotland Yard and share notes they'd taken on Sherlock's wittier jibes. The "Anderson Annihilations" were always a hit, and so, with an invisible grin, Lestrade pulled out his pencil and pad of paper and quickly scribbled down notes, detailing this most recent assault on "the nose" and his future eligibility for the Darwin Award.


	12. Sherlock and Irene

_Author's Note: Hey everybody. Here's a piece of post-Reichenbach. This follows what I've previously established for Sherlock and Irene in this "story". I hope you like it! Please review!_

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><p>"<em>No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that… just for me? Just stop it, stop this."<em>

The voice trailed off and the breathy sounds of crying could be heard through the electronic crackle. Sherlock sat motionlessly in a chair, his eyes staring off into nothingness, the recording device held up in front of him by his stiffened fingers. He pressed the stop button and the sounds of static ceased.

"What's that?"

Sherlock did not turn to acknowledge the voice. Irene, used to this behavior, walked around from behind his chair and seated herself in the one across him.

"Digital recorder," was the clipped reply.

"How did you get a recording of John on there? That was clearly a port-mortem speech."

"I had this planted at my grave." There was a pause.

"That's a bit dishonest, don't you think?" Finally Sherlock turned his gaze towards The Woman, his brow knit in confusion.

"Why? They're speaking to me, why shouldn't I be allowed to hear it?"

"Those are personal thoughts, Sherlock. They probably wouldn't be saying those things if they knew you were actually listening," she reprimanded gently. Sherlock merely scoffed.

"People ought to tell others what they think of them. It's only because they are cowards that they are unable to do so when the other person is still _alive_. I'm doing them a favor. By listening to these, I'm able to hear what they should have told me before I died."

"Well aren't you just an astounding hypocrite." Sherlock's eyes once again flashed to Irene's curiously. She smirked and raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"When did you ever take the time to tell anyone what they meant to you? You more than anyone keep those thoughts to yourself. Have you ever, for instance, truly expressed to John how important he is to you, the way he did to you in that recording?"

Sherlock became hushed, his eyes returning to their glazed state while Irene watched him silently. It was clear to her that his mind was whirling, and probably his emotions as well, but, as always, he managed to keep a solid cap on both so that neither showed clearly enough in his features for her to read them.

"How long ago was that?" she asked after a brief moment.

"This was John's first visit to the grave, only days after my suicide."

"You keep everything then? Every single moment recorded of people talking at your grave?"

"No of course not," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes at her assumption. "Why would I want to keep all of it? I'd have to sift through painful amounts of boring chatter to ever hear anything of importance. No, I've erased the rest of it to date."

The brilliant duo fell quiet again, Sherlock lost in thought—as he always seemed to be when left to his own devices—and Irene contemplating his last words. After a minute she gave an almost imperceptible chuckle, accompanied by a sad smile.

"Perhaps you were right Sherlock. People ought to tell others what they think of them. But that only makes you the biggest coward I know. You should have told John how much you care for him. You shouldn't have abandoned him."

"What, and _I'm_ the hypocrite?" Sherlock snapped suddenly, rising quickly to his feet. Irene's eyes widened in surprise and she rose slowly so that they were on the same level. "You faked _your_ death and were content to leave me without a clue, thinking you gone forever, and yet you tell me that I shouldn't have abandoned John?"

"It's not the same," she replied, her jaw clenched as she fought to keep her emotions from forming tears in her eyes.

"No, no it _isn't_ the same," agreed Sherlock angrily, "Because your motive was _entirely_ selfish and mine the exact opposite. You left me with no word in order to save your own life; I left him with no word in order to save the lives of others. Including his. Don't you dare tell me that what I did was wrong. I've done what's best for John."

"He deserves the _truth_!" insisted Irene.

"No, he deserves to _live_," he snarled.

Sherlock and Irene locked eyes, the passionate fires of their souls blazing out of them, making the air sizzle with heated tension. Sherlock's lips were curled in utter disdain and fury; Irene's jaw was firmly set in anger and stubborn determination.

Without a word, Irene spun around and waltzed out of the room. She was too dignified to stomp or slam the door on her way out, but the attitude was evident in her powerful stride. Sherlock continued to glare at her backside even as she vanished through the door, closing it behind her. After another minute, he allowed himself to look away from the door and his eyes quickly drifted back to the recorder still in his hand.

With a fatigued plop, he collapsed into the chair and leaned back against it. His long pale fingers gently brushed against the device's buttons as he stared at them vaguely. Then he pressed down and held the rewind button, allowing the recording to revert to the beginning. He pressed play, his eyes regaining the absent sheen and returning their gaze to the same faraway spot on the wall.

_"Um… Mmm… You… You told me once… that you weren't a hero. Um, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this- you were the best man and the most human… human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so… there. …I was… so alone, and I owe you so much…. No, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing…"_

As the recording that Sherlock had memorized by heart played once more, Sherlock found his lip quivering as silent tears tumbled down his cheeks. The recorder trembled in his shaking hands as the words washed over the guilt-ridden ex-detective.

"_One more miracle, Sherlock, just for me…"_

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the drops of water cling to his eyelashes.

"I'm so sorry John," he whispered, the words muffled by his tears.

"_Don't be… dead."_

"If I could… If only I could…"

"_Would you do that… just for me?"_

"I'd do anything for you…"

"_Just stop it, stop this."_

"So sorry… John… I should have… should have told you…

"John Hamish Watson, I…" Sherlock knew the words he wanted to say, but they wouldn't come, despite the fact that John was not even present to hear them. Suddenly Sherlock knew that even if he couldn't speak those words, there were other things that needed to be said. He could never see John again, so this would have to do.

"You've got it all… wrong, John. I was the one that was alone. I never even realized it, or… I knew how alone I was but I didn't… I didn't understand what it was that I was missing, what it was that… that I needed. I needed you, John. I'm the one that owes _you_. I owe you for… everything." Sherlock wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat, the tears still flowing, making it difficult to speak.

"You accepted me for… what I am, _who_ I am. I never… I was so used to being shunned, scorned, mocked. But you… why did you do it? _How_ did you… do it? I'm so sorry John, for… hurting you. I know I have. I'm not an… easy man to live with." Sherlock gave a laugh; he knew John would have enjoyed that understatement.

"But even though I may have troubled you, or angered you at times, you always meant so much to me, John. You are my best friend. And I'm not just saying that because I have no other friends, because that's not the point. Before you, no one truly mattered. Not really. But you entered my life and I… I began to _care_. I've never cared what anyone else thought of me—it was always you that worried about the press and public opinion—but for some reason I always… I care what _you_ think John. Only you.

"I wish I'd told you before I… well, told you how special you are. You are the best part of me, and I wanted… I would have stayed with you forever. The world doesn't seem right without you in it. You are… perfect. Brilliant, and kind- funny, loyal, wonderful and… everything that is good in the world. You are the best person I know and I would do… anything for you, I hope you know that. I didn't want to leave you but it was… it was the only way. I tried, I did, but he was too clever, too… vindictive."

Suddenly Sherlock straightened up, a new passion stirring up within him. This release of his stored up thoughts and emotions had been healing, and by getting rid of this extra baggage, he could now see clearly where he hadn't before. He had simply assumed that he could never see John again, but why did it have to be that way? It didn't! All that needed to be done was to take down Moriarty's web, destroy the remnants of his criminal network. If Sherlock did that, he could return to John.

The tears in Sherlock's eyes started to dry and a determination filled his soul, steeling his nerve. There were only a few things left to say now.

"John. I'm glad you didn't believe me, about what I said on the roof. I'm glad you still have faith in me, because as long as I have that, I can survive. I will find a way back to you if I have to spend the rest of my life doing it, because I know that you're there, waiting for me. I swear to you John, with all my heart and soul, I will get you that one last miracle."


End file.
